


Better Off

by Shippershape



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 17:39:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4068736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shippershape/pseuds/Shippershape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy decides it's time to bring Clarke back. She's not the same, but neither is he, and he's never missed a stranger like this before. One-shot. Imported from a tumblr prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Off

Bellamy doesn’t really know what to expect when he finally leaves camp to go looking for Clarke. Months have passed and he’s given her what he assumed was the space she was asking for. But her absence has settled into both the camp and his chest like a dead weight, and he decides it’s time for her to come home. So he packs enough gear to last him a few days and sets off towards the last place their scouts spotted smoke above the trees.

It isn’t until the colour of the sun filtering through the leaves changes to a dusty orange that Bellamy realizes how long he’s been walking. As the sun begins to set, the birds became loud, unusually so, and it strikes him as an ominous sign when he can no longer hear his own footfalls above the din of their squawking.

“What’s your problem?” He wonders aloud, peering up through the branches at the flashes of feathered movement above him. He’s so busy looking up that he almost trips over the deer. Its the smell that draws his focus back to the ground, that rancid, rotting flesh smell that is unique but also familiar. It’s stripped nearly to the bone, only small chunks of dried fat and sinew still clinging to the ribs where the rest have been cut away. Cut, not bitten. This is the work of human hands, two skillful and surgically deliberate human hands. It’s the only time in his life where the sight of a mutilated, rotting carcass brings a swell of joy to his chest. She’s close.

There’s another flash of movement in the trees ahead of him, but this time the blur is of fur, not feathers. The birds reach a deafening volume, their shrill cries nearly driving Bellamy to press his hands to his ears, before they fall completely silent. The hair on the back of his neck stands up as the unnatural quiet sets in. Something is wrong. His eyes strain in the fading light, searching for a glimpse of whatever caused the birds to retreat in fear. The eerie silence persists, and Bellamy begins to feel almost stiff in his stillness. For a moment, there is nothing, then-

“DOWN!” The voice explodes from beside him. He obeys, hitting the forest floor hard enough to knock a huff of air from his chest. There’s a howl, something horrible and painful, and then the silence returns, broken only by his erratic breathing. His savior turns to face him, tugging away the hood that covers her face. There’s an apathy there that turns a familiar face alien, but it’s her.

“Clarke.” He breaths. She thrusts the now bloodied blade into its sheath on her hip, then holds out her hand. He takes it, catching sight of the dead wolf behind her as he clambers to his feet. “What…” But he isn’t even sure where to start. She glances at the sky, seems to make a decision.

“The sun’s almost gone. You can stay with me tonight, go back tomorrow.” She says. Her voice, always raspy, is hoarse from disuse. He follows her as she heads back into the trees.

“I’m not going back without you.” He tells her. He can’t see her face, but hears the sigh.

“Of course you are.” It’s strange to listen to her ruined voice when he can’t see her lips moving. It’s like talking to a stranger. “They need you.”

He scoffs.

“They need _you_.” He mutters. She shakes her head, and as her hair dances across her back he suddenly notices how long it’s gotten. Some of it has been braided in a style similar to Octavia’s, and he wonders when she learned to do that. Had it been before the culling? After?

As the last of the light begins to dwindle, Bellamy notices a flickering a few yards ahead of them. He assumes that since they’re headed straight for it, the fire is part of Clarke’s camp. A few minutes later he’s proven right as they both come out into a tiny clearing, big enough only for a small tent, a fire, and am improvised log seat. He stares around with a sadness he doesn’t fully understand. It’s just so _solitary_. One seat, a tent big enough only for her and her grief, with trees in every direction. But maybe she’s used to that. He remembers hearing rumours on the ark about the traitor sentenced to solitary confinement until her hearing. Maybe this is her solitary confinement on earth. Maybe this is her punishment. The thought depresses him.

She disappears into the tent and returns with a flask of water. She offers it to him but he shakes his head.

“I have my own.”

As if to prove it, he pulls the water, and a bit of his food, out of the backpack he’s been carrying. As he drinks, he finds he was thirsty, but once his thirst has been quenched the food in his hand holds no real appeal. He offers the bag to Clarke. She reaches in and pulls something out, her eyes lighting up with the first real emotion he’s seen since she saved him.

“Is this a muffin?” She asks. He nods.

“Yeah. Callie made them. Monty set up this grinder thing, so now we have flour. They’re actually pretty good.” He watches as she takes a bite, taking in the changes to her face. There’s a scar under her left eye that’s new, a couple bruises. She’s lost weight, and the thinness in her face makes her look older, angles and sharp cheekbones replacing roundness. She’s still beautiful. Maybe even more so in her hardness. That armour around her represents the sacrifices she made for him, for all of them. He will only love her for it.

She finishes the muffin in a few bites, and he finds himself wondering how often she makes kills like the deer he’d almost stumbled into earlier. She’s never been much of a tracker. Maybe that weight loss has to do with more than just stress. He frowns.

“There are more where that came from.” He tells her as she swallowed the last of her muffin. He isn’t talking about the bag. Clarke looks at him as though she knows exactly what he meant.

“I can’t, Bellamy.” Her voice is still rough, her hair has grown longer and her face is an unfamiliar mask of indifference. But it’s still her. He steps towards her. She doesn’t move, but her eyes are wary.

“Why not?”

“You know why.” She turns away. His hand is on her shoulder before she gets the chance to walk away.

“No, I don’t. I left you alone for months.” She glares at him. “I knew where you were, always. Did you think I wouldn’t? I figured that maybe you had to do this, to clear your head. That you would come home on your own.”

He lets the silence grow between them for a moment, eyes locked with hers.

“But you didn’t.”

“I can’t.”

“That’s bullshit.” He growls. She looks surprised. Then, defeated.

“I don’t want to.”

The threat of that hangs in the air. He searches her face for nearly a minute before shaking his head.

“That’s bullshit, too.” She’s lying. He doesn’t know why he’s so sure of it, except that maybe there’s a hunger in her eyes that has nothing to do with food, and everything to do with the way her hand keeps drifting unconsciously toward his.

“Bellamy-”

“If you think people haven’t forgiven you, they have. If you think I haven’t forgiven you, I have. The only person who hasn’t forgiven you is you, Clarke. By staying out here all by yourself you’re punishing all of us. We need you. We’re trying to get by, and your mom helps with the medical stuff but those kids look up to you, and they need a leader they believe in.”

“They believe in you.” She says, the waver in her voice giving away her stony façade. “You can be that leader, Bellamy. You’ve done it before.”

“Not without you.” He means it. She can see that, but she shakes her head.

“You’re better off.” Even Clarke seems to sense that her lies are getting weaker.

“None of us are better off with you gone.” His words ring of truth, of desperation. He has no plans to go back without her. There are nights he doesn’t sleep at all, just lays tangled in his sheets and misses her. Tries to ignore the distinct sense that a piece of him is missing.

She doesn’t bother trying to justify it this time, just stares sadly back at him. He wonders what it is that’s holding her back. Wonders if even she knows.

“It’s late. We should get some sleep.” It’s the only defense she has left. Bellamy wants to refuse, to make her listen. But he isn’t sure what there is left to say. So he follows her into the tent, watches as she folds herself onto one side of the blanket to make room for him. He lays down beside her, staring up at the canvas ceiling. The space is small, too small, and his arm is pressed against her back. When he can’t ignore it any longer he rolls onto his side, throwing his arm over Clarke and tucking his fingers under her waist. She doesn’t say anything, so neither does he.

Hours pass. He doesn’t get much sleep and he suspects she doesn’t either. When he opens his eyes again the darkness outside is no longer impenetrable. The sun will be up soon, and she’ll send him on his way. The thought fills him with fear, and a desperation he hasn’t known in months.

“Clarke.” He says suddenly. She jolts awake beside him.

“What?” Her voice is still rough, this time with sleep. He can’t find the words, still doesn’t know what to say to change her mind. The thought of going home empty handed blooms panic in his chest. His heart sputters frantically, and he’s sure Clarke can feel it thudding against her back. “Bellamy?” The groggy drawl is gone, replaced with concern. He begins to feel like he can’t breathe, but he can’t move either, and suddenly she’s gripping his hand tightly, arm pressed firmly against his.

“Clarke-” He gasps again, struggling to replace the air it costs him. He’s having a panic attack. It’s happened before, twice since the culling. He knows he needs air, to get out of this tent, but he’s frozen to the spot.

“Shhh.” Clarke’s voice is low and soothing. She traces a pattern across the back of his hand with her thumb. “You’re okay Bellamy. You’re going to breathe slowly. Count to five.” She counts with him, her back rising and falling alongside his chest until his heartrate returns to normal. He’s exhausted in the aftermath, laying with his face pressed into her neck, her thumb still moving across his skin.

He opens his mouth to say thank you.

“Please.”

It’s not what he meant to say. But it’s exactly what he means. The tent is quiet, their breathing matched in time interrupted only by the occasional half-song of a morning bird. Her thumb stills, and he almost regrets saying anything. But he had to try one more time, never would have forgiven himself if he hadn’t. She sighs, a deep and almost unbearably weary sound. Her hand moves again, this time weaving her fingers in between his, thumb resuming its earlier pattern. He hasn’t felt peace like this in what feels like years. Starting to drift off as the early light begins to filter through the tent, he almost misses it.

But her voice is like a memory, something a little more familiar.

“Okay.”


End file.
